White Amongst the Black
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Sherlock has never liked winter. Snow was just pointless; it was cold, dangerous, and melted in your socks. John, however, has always loved winter and pondering the snow, and his flatmate, keeps him entertained.


**White Amongst the Black**

John woke up to find that the windows were not only fogged up from the differentiating temperatures, but also that there was a thick blanket of snow on the ground and even more falling. Oh, the perks of winter, deadly as it was. Winter was John's favourite season simply because the beautiful majesty of the snowfall was something to be reckoned with. Although, he didn't tell anyone that anymore. He'd mentioned it to Sherlock once; the black-haired detective had scoffed and said all that snow was good for was making people fall down and cars crash and all other inhumane things. He hadn't shattered John's perspective on winter, but he had shattered John's mood at the time.

With no work and no case today, and the ever familiar absence of Sherlock in the morning, John was free to contemplate Life's little hidden secrets that were somehow hidden within this mass of circling white snow.

He wiped the window free of condensation and trotted to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. When it had brewed, he took his seat and fixed his gaze on the window, sipping at the familiar hot beverage.

Snow reminded him of his childhood days, which had never been particularly good or particularly bad, just somewhere in the middle. He wasn't complaining and he never had; he probably never would, but he'd leave the Future to have its chance.

Vaguely, John had wondered about Sherlock's childhood days. It wasn't the snow that brought it on, because he'd thought about it before. But it was a question that he couldn't bring himself to ask; the consulting detective was as secretive as they came when it came to his own personal life. Except the fact that he didn't have friends, that he had archenemies, and he had no interest in romance whatsoever, John knew very little about Sherlock.

Not that he was complaining. It bothered him, sometimes, that Sherlock knew so much about him and yet he knew nothing about Sherlock. Most of the time, however, he was content to stay where he was, quietly oblivious and not seeking the truth.

John had a feeling that there was something darker about Sherlock's past that neither of them wanted to hear about, but he didn't know. All John knew was that Sherlock was socially awkward, and he probably always had been, or something in the past had made him that way. John didn't want to know anything else.

He took another sip of his tea, watching the snow. It was coming down fast now, thick, white granules of frozen water that no longer melted when they touched down, but clung and formed with others to create a walkway of pure white. It was difficult to see the pavement on the road below, but they had never done a good job of keeping the streets completely clean, which was, coincidentally, one of the reasons Sherlock hated it. He complained about how, when walking out to get the mail or to hail a cab, he would end up with snow in his shoes. John thought that part was rather funny, actually.

His fingers were warm around the teacup and it was toasty in the house; the window was fogging up again so John imagined it was rather chilly outside. His thoughts, not for the first time, went back to Sherlock. His jacket was gone, so at least he had some sort of shield against the cold. Not that Sherlock really seemed to care about being cold; the one time he had admitted it was cold, John was seriously speculating that he had just turned up his collar because it gave him an air of mystery. Everybody knew that Sherlock, like the mystery he so constantly craved, was one himself. He didn't need to turn up his collar to give off that air.

John had finished with his tea by now; he sat the cup back onto the saucer and carried both trinkets into the kitchen. He sat them next to the sink- God only knew what Sherlock had poured down the sink this morning, but it was blue!- before returning to the living room. He had been just about to sit down when footfalls on the stairsteps announced his flatmate's arrival.

Sherlock bustled in, nodding a quick _good morning_ at John. He pulled off his coat and threw it over the back of the armchair, a small flurry of snowflakes going up at the sudden movement. The detective's face was slightly flushed, rosy with colour after the cold temperature. There was a gleam in his eye and snowflakes in his hair, a few singular speckles of white amongst the black curls.

John frowned. "What have you been up to?"

"Solving a case." Sherlock paused. "The mystery disappearance of Jack Frost had the town in an uproar!"

John scoffed, hiding his smile behind the newspaper as he opened it. "Did you find him intact somewhere?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"Pity."

There was some shuffling as Sherlock walked past, ruffling his hair to dislodge the melting snowflakes. There was a near silent, disgusted, sigh from the detective as he stopped at the window. John chuckled to himself. He wouldn't admit it, but he thought the snow fit Sherlock just fine.

It was cold, it was unmanageable, it was sometimes fleeting or sometimes lasting, it came when it wished and left when it wanted and it didn't care at all about the consequences that came of its arrival or departure.

All in all, it was Sherlock in the personified form of some floating flakes.

Maybe Sherlock didn't like the snow because it reminded him of himself.

John laughed again to himself, feeling curious eyes assessing the back of his head, but, having pondered the snow enough for the day, didn't look back up again.

* * *

**I had this brilliant mental picture of Sherlock walking into the flat with snow clinging in his hair, and this blossomed from it. I'm not a SherWatsonlock shipper, well, at least, not romance. I love their friendship and that's that.**

**It's un-read-over and definitely un-Beta'd, so let me know if you see anything wrong.**

**Oh, and please review!**


End file.
